


So Many Colours

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the fateful Peru adventure, a young soldier is thinking about Jim.</p><p>First posted September 2003 at 852 Prospect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Many Colours

**Author's Note:**

> Each section is an alternating POV. This was story #2 in TS for me, and I was still learning.

All things Sentinel belong to other people. I do this because girls just want to have fun.

Massively inspired by the Mutton Birds' song "Jackie". A big kiwi Gidday to Caro & Donna, cause you always remember your first - feedback that is <g>.

I did research, but I played pretty fast & loose with it. You don't come here for an accurate study of US military culture and procedure, do you? PG for language, homosexual yearning & the deaths of seven military personnel. Excuse a foreigner's mistakes and learn to deal with the spelling of 'colours'.

* * *

"Dear Mam."  
Well, okay, that's a good beginning. So what next? "Your blue-eyed baby boy is completely knocked on his ass by his stage one ranger training." Somehow, I don't think so. "Your choir singing son is completely knocked on his ass by his ranger buddy." Definitely not. Back to basics. 

"Dear Mam,  
Happy Birthday. I'm sorry that I can't be there, but you know how it is. Training is tough, but I think that I'm coping. There's some good guys here. You'd like my ranger buddy, Lieutenant James Ellison. Think Big Brothers, army style. He's sort of showing me the ropes - fairly literally sometimes. I hope that Tommy's youngest is over the whooping cough. Wonder if that will shake Jill's belief in all natural, no modern science remedies, but I doubt it. Tell Trina that Jackie Cool is hanging tough. Love,  
Jack" 

There, pop that into a nice generic card that she can show everyone else, put it in the parcel and organise to post. And who's - oh, great. 

"Hey, Jack, what are you up to?" 

Just can't like this guy. Sam Holland seems nice enough, but he just rubs me the wrong way. Let's have courtesy for our brothers in arms, though. 

"Just writing to Mam. It's her birthday before we finish here." 

"Mam? What happened to good old American 'Mom'?" 

"She's a Scottish war bride. Dad took her back to Pennsylvania after that little business in Europe about forty years ago. Embraced all things American, except for being called Mom." 

He grins and heads off. I'm grateful. 

* * *

I'm not particularly happy about being here to help nursemaid the new recruits at Benning. But Major Lipinksi assures me that it's short term. Helping with training will show willing and add to the record and experience. I look at these men, who are the pick of what our country has to offer, and I feel a little strange. I'm not that much older than the majority of them. We all want those black and gold tabs, but only half of these guys are going to do it. Only half of _those_ guys are going to do it all first time round. So, time to separate the sheep from the goats. 

* * *

Man, I am so tired. And sore. And sleep deprived. The joys of army life. And the weird thing is that I'm really stoked by it all. I haven't dropped out yet. I'm doing it. And tomorrow I'll get to see Jim again. 

There's nothing wrong with enjoying somebody's company. He's a good guy, Lieutenant Ellison. Like they say at the introductory stuff, in the Rangers you can forge friendships that will last a lifetime. I'd like to know Jim for a lifetime. 

* * *

I'm enjoying the map reading exercises. Nothing like getting out into a forest and watching a bunch of guys try not to lose themselves. Jack's doing good. There're no deadbeats here, but it's tough. My own memories of ranger school are not that clear - funny how no sleep screws with your mind. Watching these guys brings a surprising amount of it back. 

Time to hustle some of these soldiers... Shit, what was that? That bird couldn't have been louder if it had sat on my shoulder and whistled straight through my skull. And the leaves are rustling so loud. But it's okay now. Huh, guess the recruits aren't the only people feeling sleep deprived. 

* * *

Trina writes to me when she can spare the time. Brothers and sisters who have produced enough children to give all of us a minimum of seven nieces and nephews keep pretty busy. She was, well, diffident, about me joining the army, which is stupid because it's all I ever wanted to do. She knows, always did. Went with me to watch Force Ten from Navarone when the local drive in had it on. Of course, she just wanted to watch Harrison Ford. I got into a fight with Dwane Goetz because he implied that she was my date and a whole lot more. Wiped the floor with him too. 

Mam used to call us the terrible two, her last babies. She still jokes that if she'd had us first then she would have stopped right there. I guess that Trina knows me pretty well, and it hurts that she doesn't approve. Or something. She was glad for Tom when he joined the cops. What's the difference with me and the army? 

* * *

Benning was better than I thought it would be, but I can't say that I'm sorry to be back at Lewis. Scuttlebutt is that I might make Captain soon. Shame that I didn't get to show Jack around the nightlife after graduation, especially since he'll be posted at Benning. Glad he made it though. He'll be a credit to the Rangers. 

* * *

Today has been interesting. Just three weeks after upgrading my medical training, and I'm recommended for an op on the basis of it and the rest of my sterling record. So I head for the ops base with all due enthusiasm and whom do I discover is going to be my commanding officer, but one Captain James Joseph Ellison? 

It's good to see each other again, but there's not a lot of time for 'do you remember'. Business before all. I'm a professional soldier, a member of the one most elite army units in the world. So why, when I see Jim, do I feel like I'm about to behave like Trina when Mam finally let her put that giant Starsky and Hutch poster on her wall? 

I feel a little uncomfortable with the chain of command for this mission. We're all seconded from Ranger units, but this is not technically a Ranger operation. A Colonel Oliver, who seems to be as involved in the CIA as he is in the army, carries out the briefing. Reverend Schumaker was real fond of quoting that no man can serve two masters. Too many people giving too many orders leads to missions that go fubar in a big way. 

* * *

This is a good team. Jack McKenzie has shaped up well. Bill Sarris I've known a long time. Tom Garard, Tony Vetorri, Paul Connell and Frank Stuart are unknown quantities but their records are excellent. 

The op looks interesting. The insurgents are pretty vicious, and indiscriminate about their targets. Should ensure local co-operation though. We're a small group, but then a pass is a classically easy objective to defend. We're there to provide support and instruction as much as anything. I wish I felt better about Colonel Oliver and his briefing though. If there's one thing I hate, it's spooks; and an officer who looks like he's in bed with them gives me the creeps. 

We leave tomorrow, but tonight, what's left of it, is off duty. There's a small mess and we all head over. There's a jukebox and Jack makes a beeline. 

"Hey Captain, you still a Santana fan?" 

"Till the day I die, Lieutenant." 

Jack gives a big grin and Black Magic Woman fills the room. We shoot the breeze a while, get to know each other, assess what each man is going to bring to this op. Then it's time for the last decent sleep in a clean bed that we'll enjoy for some time. 

On the way out I say to Jack, "Hey, maybe I'll finally get to give you that tour of all the unapproved night spots when we get back." 

Damned if he doesn't blush. I know that he's a churchgoer, but he was pretty forthright in Ranger training, and indicated that he drank harder than your average good Methodist boy. 

"Yeah, I'll look forward to it." 

* * *

Garard is checking maps as the Huey flies over tropical jungle. It's so green that I feel that my eyes are never going to see any other colour. So, Pennsylvania is green. Florida is green. Georgia is green, where it's not red. But this is a new green to me, and so big. Garard indicates a river and very small town below us. That and the mountain range ahead of us indicate that e.t.a. to the landing zone is steadily getting smaller. 

We are all reviewing procedure for after landing when there is a sort of whumph noise. The huey shudders and I instinctively put my hands to my straps. 

"We're under fire," comes over the intercom from the pilot. We share a 'no shit Sherlock' look with each other. Jim looks down, trying to see anything that might pinpoint enemy position but all that beautiful green makes great cover. There is one hell of a bang and Connell yelps and slumps in his seat. I'm close to him, so I undo my straps and move across to him. There are first aid supplies in a locker above him and I reach for them when there's another bang, more resonant this time. There is no door to the huey. The helicopter lurches, and I pitch right out that empty space where the door used to be. 

In emergencies there are strange contradictions of time and feeling. Everything happens incredibly quickly, in slow motion. I note how low the huey is riding in relation to the jungle canopy and I scream in terror at the same time. The treetops are very close and I hit them but I keep on falling because that solid looking canopy isn't the ground. There are awkward shocks and wrenches as I hit branches on the way down, and a last winding blow when I finally hit the ground. Dazed, I hear a noise that I know is a helicopter making the same journey down that I just made. Then I pass out. 

* * *

Rangers don't like admitting to complete pandemonium in an op, so I won't. But those long long seconds as the helicopter goes down are close enough. There is the whine of damaged engines, the pilot shouting that he can't get her back, the erratic chop of rotors that aren't doing their job. Jack is gone and we're going. The dreadful tumble as the huey hits the trees and flips, the crash of metal and glass as we finally hit the ground. 

I'm alive, and I really don't believe it. I'll deal with my unbelief after I've seen to my men. The pilot and Stuart are dead. Connell was gone before Jack I think. Garard and Vetorri are unconscious. Bill Sarris is alive and conscious, but inextricably tangled in the wreckage. I wriggle through the mess towards him. 

"Hey, Jim. Maybe you should get some of the others outside. You could gag a skunk with the smell of fuel in here. I'll be okay." 

This is a lie, unless you count dying as a solution to your problems. Unfortunately he's right. I can't help him. I pat his shoulder because I can't say anything. Then I wriggle backwards, and grab Vetorri, who is closest to what's left of the door. I get him onto my shoulders and turn away from the huey when there is a flash of heat and a force that I don't so much hear as feel in my bones and gut. I shouldn't hear Bill Sarris's anguished cry over this elemental noise, but I swear that I do. Vetorri and I are pushed head over heels, and I end up on top of him. Like that will do him good. 

I check Vetorri, but he's gone. Assuming that the enemy are not on their way to finish the job, this is one hell of a burial detail on my plate. I decide to look for Jack. Rangers don't leave anyone behind. He should at least be with the others. 

* * *

Life is full of choices. Nothing like knowing that you're dying for the great epiphanies. Now there's a good word. Thank you Mr Dixon, in tenth grade English class. I always wanted to be a soldier from when I was a little kid. There's that old proverb. Take what you want, says God, and pay for it. Mam would probably say that that's blasphemous, but it's right. I chose and I paid. Not this. This is part and parcel of being a soldier. We all die. But choosing to ignore, to bury, to almost cut out part of yourself, so that you can have the other part - you think that there's time to do everything. How the hell did Trina know, when I couldn't even admit it to myself? 

I've been on the outs with God for a while, but I'm praying now. It's hurting a lot, and I'd just like it to finish soon. 

I hear a noise, different to the cries of animals and the movement of massive vegetation. I can't even move my head, but then Jim is standing right in front of me. 

"Jesus," he exclaims. "You're alive." He crouches down, begins the full body check that's recommended first aid procedure. 

"It's just temporary, Jim." It's nice to call him by name. I can even move my face muscles in a sort of smile. I'm glad that he's here. He sits beside me, takes my hand. There's nothing else to do. He's distressed but staunch, a credit to the best military traditions. I'm not sure that I'm going to be, because it really hurts. I can't help making an unpleasant noise. He grips my hand tightly, and then he says something strange. 

"Who'd have thought that blood would have so many colours?" The grip on my hand slackens. 

"Jim," I cry. I mean, really cry. But there's no answer. 

* * *

What the hell? Where did the light go? I check my watch. It's at least two hours since I found Jack, but that was just a moment ago. I guess I've done some sort of shock thing. I feel a scalding shame. Not so much for the loss of my command, although that was a shocking waste of good men. That was piss poor intelligence and Oliver is going to face some - searching- questions. But Jack's dead, like the others, and he went alone because I had some stupid reaction. 

There's some animal - bird, monkey- who knows, making a noise like a drunken woman, raucous and shrill. Then it's too quiet. I look behind. There is a group of men, their faces painted, coming out of the trees. The locals we've been sent to liaise with, I hope. At the moment I don't much care. But if they're not going to kill me then perhaps they can help me bury my men. And then I carry on with the mission. 

* * *

End So Many Colours by Mab: [MabinBrowne@hotmail.com](mailto:MabinBrowne@hotmail.com)

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


End file.
